


Cellophane Wrappers

by Riennynn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fallen Angels, Gen, Human Castiel, fallen!cas, human!Cas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2013-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-16 17:56:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/864936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riennynn/pseuds/Riennynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The angel Castiel seldom ate, unless he was under the influence of Famine. He had no apparent use for beer or beef jerky or pie (although he knows Dean’s favorites and privately laments that he was never able to complete his shopping the day Metatron took his Grace).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cellophane Wrappers

**Author's Note:**

> Post-Season 8 hiatus fic :D Also posted to my Tumblr at: http://riennynn.tumblr.com/post/54151896658/cellophane-wrappers-a-fallen-cas-fic

The angel Castiel seldom ate, unless he was under the influence of Famine. He had no apparent use for beer or beef jerky or pie (although he knows Dean’s favorites and privately laments that he was never able to complete his shopping the day Metatron took his Grace).

After becoming human, Castiel is still developing his palate. He shies away from burgers and steak, cautiously approves of fried chicken, and seems overwhelmed by the variety of condiments Sam and Dean add to their meals. “Try some salt," a helpful comment from Sam, inevitably leads to a small mountain of white granules atop his casserole, taste buds unsure whether the sting is what is intended.

Maybe Gabriel’s Trickster trademark wasn’t something he picked up from the pagans, because Castiel likes sweets. Ice cream, chocolate bars, and cookies disappear at an alarming rate when they enter the bunker. Strangely enough, he refuses pie, even Dean’s piping hot homemade apple with fresh cream.

He takes to the little round red and white striped mints from diners, pocketing them by the handful. The sharp tang of peppermint and curious crunch are a constant.

Still, Dean smiles when he stoops to pick up the little torn cellophane wrappers that lead like a breadcrumb trail to Castiel asleep on the couch.


End file.
